Rose of the Underworld
by Rue de la Chanvrerie
Summary: After passing notes with the school loner during detention, Enjolras definitely doesn't expect to become entangled in Eponine's dark, twisted, crime-infested world. Or to fall in love with her. But that's exactly what happens. (Modern AU)
1. Chapter 1

ONE  
Enjolras

Inciting a mini-rebellion in AP Biology had been a bad idea.

Enjolras' _intentions_ had been good, of course. Some of his classmates just couldn't afford that giant tome of a biology textbook, and _still_ Mr. Hayden had threatened to bring them all down one letter grade for not purchasing the brick.

And Enjolras, being Enjolras, couldn't just sit there and let that shit happen.

So he'd stood up and given Mr. Hayden a fiery denunciation that had started with "You, sir, are part of the problem with today's society" and had only gone downhill from there. And then Enjolras—along with many of his classmates, at Enjolras' goading—had walked right out of that classroom in a glorious act of rebellion against the injustices of upper class privilege.

And then he'd gotten detention.

Now he was sitting in a mostly empty classroom, bored out of his mind and unable to do anything productive. He had been assigned to write an essay about how starting rebellions in class was wrong, but he'd finished it in less than an hour, so he was forced to stare at the wall for the remaining two hours and ten minutes of detention.

There was one other person in the room besides Enjolras and the detention monitor. The girl sat at the table next to Enjolras, still writing her own essay. She was hunched over her paper, silent and solemn, drawing out the letters with a slow, careful hand. Enjolras was curious to discover what she'd done to get in trouble, but there was a strict no-talking policy for detention.

The girl was in Enjolras' English class. No one else in the class seemed to notice her; she usually kept to herself. Enjolras probably shouldn't have noticed her, either—after all, he rarely noticed women in general. And yet, he'd noticed her, that skinny, tangle-haired girl in the corner of the room. The one with her nose buried in a sketchbook. The one with eyes like dark wildfire.

As of yet, he knew three things about the girl.

One: her name. Eponine Thenardier. She'd never told him, but he'd seen the name scribbled across the top of her paper in her loopy scrawl whenever they'd had to pass in their tests or assignments. A rather romantic name for one so poor and plain.

Two: she was…different. She didn't talk much, but sometimes Enjolras heard her singing off-key to herself in a soft, ghost-like voice. _And her eyes_. Her eyes either had this shifty, wicked gleam to them, like she was plotting something devilish, or they were staring intently at something in the distance, at something only Eponine could see. _Or_ they were focused on her sketchbook—a tattered little thing filled with thousands of pencil drawings. Enjolras had never gotten a good look at them, but once he'd caught a glimpse of a fog-colored rose dripping dark gray blood.

And three (this, to Enjolras, was the most important fact): she was poor. Her reddish-brown locks were always unruly. Her worn, baggy outfits had obviously seen better days. Her textbooks—ripped, dog-eared pages and frayed covers—were in a similar state. Her position on the high school social ladder was pretty much equivalent to her position in society as a whole. She didn't belong to any one group, as far as Enjolras was concerned. He occasionally saw her attempting to converse—for one so quiet, she was quite an animated speaker—but her attempts were either ignored or dismissed with a polite, uneasy smile.

She was, in short, an outcast.

Which meant that she was exactly the kind of person for whom Enjolras fought. The poor, the downtrodden, the oppressed. They were humans, but society was too vain to realize it.

He sometimes wished he could talk with Eponine, but he—to put it bluntly—sucked at small talk. His walls were decorated with speech contest awards, but for some reason, it was difficult for him to ask how someone's day was going without sounding stiff. Conversing with his friends came easy enough, but strangers like Eponine? Awkward as hell.

That, Enjolras knew, was his biggest obstacle. He'd interviewed dozens of people, read hundreds of books on politics and psychology and poverty, penned approximately twenty essays on the state of the common man in society, and avidly supported human rights, but he'd never gotten to know personally someone like Eponine.

And here, in detention, was his chance. His chance to earn deeper, more intimate insight on the psychological state of a person of the lower class. And not just a _person_ of the lower class, but a woman—one who was possibly even more degraded and oppressed than the common man.

Damn that no-talking-in-detention policy.

Enjolras sighed and tapped his pencil— _wait a minute_. Pencil. Paper. Enjolras and Eponine weren't able to _talk_ to each other, but speaking wasn't the only form of communication...

Enjolras glanced up at the detention monitor. Her nose was buried in a novel. If Enjolras and Eponine were careful, they would be able to carry out a full conversation without the monitor noticing.

A tiny flicker of hope flared in Enjolras' heart as he carefully folded his extra sheet of binder paper in half and put his pencil to paper. What would he write? A thousand questions fluttered through his mind, but he decided on the simplest, most obvious one.

 _What did you do to earn detention?_

He checked one more time to make sure that the monitor was still occupied with her book, then gingerly reached over and placed the note on Eponine's desk. Enjolras could hear his heart pounding in his ears, so loud he was sure even the monitor could hear it, but she didn't look up.

Enjolras didn't dare look over to watch Eponine's reaction. He simply stared at his Rebellion Is Wrong essay, at the banal lies he'd managed to squeeze out, and waited impatiently for Eponine's reply.

True, he'd asked a simple question, but there was a myriad of possible answers, Enjolras realized. Maybe Eponine had burst into song in the middle of class. Maybe the invisible thing that she always seemed to stare at had started conversing with her.

Or—even better!—maybe she, too, was a sort of revolutionary. She had spray-painted bright red propagandistic graffiti across the back wall of the school, or she'd done the same thing as Enjolras had, and had verbally protested the unfair treatment of the lower class. Maybe that sketchbook she always carried around was filled with plots to overthrow the government. The possibilities were endless, especially for someone as different as Eponine.

A few—though it felt more like thirty—minutes later, the slip of binder paper slid slowly onto Enjolras' desk. At last! Enjolras' heart performed a rapid little dance. He paused a moment before opening the note, savoring the feelings of curiosity and anticipation. He was, it seemed, on the brink of a miraculous discovery.

He unfolded the page with the eagerness of a child opening a present.

Six words had been scribbled out in that familiar, loopy handwriting. Eponine's first words to Enjolras, ever.

And Enjolras had no idea what the hell they were supposed to mean.

 _I don't know how to fly_


	2. Chapter 2

TWO  
Eponine

As soon as detention was over, Eponine slipped quickly and quietly out the back door of the school without anyone noticing.

She sucked in a deep breath of fresh air the moment her face came in contact with the cool autumn breeze. She released it with a heavy sigh. Of all the days to get caught stealing something and earn detention for it, it _had_ to be on the same day as her tutoring session with Marius. And now she was late for him. Lovely.

She closed her eyes and let the disappointments of the day dissolve like mist in sunlight.

"Hey, 'Ponine!"

She opened her eyes again. A smile burst across her face. _Marius._ He'd been waiting for her here, standing outside of the school. His dark hair was ruffled and the hole in his coat had reopened (Eponine had mended it for him last week), but _God_ , he looked so perfect.

Eponine ran toward him, flames racing through her veins.

She breathed his name, and he enfolded her in a giant hug.

"God, it's so good to see you," he whispered.

"And you," she said.

 _Don't let go_ , she thought, and he held her tighter. He could read her thoughts like the pages of a book.

The hug only lasted for so long—after all, they still had to get home—but the heat still tingled on Eponine's skin as they walked toward the apartment.

"I wish I could see you more often," Marius murmured. He held her hand in his, rubbed it gently with his thumb. "I wish we didn't have to hide this."

"We have to," Eponine replied, her heart thrilling from the idea of a secret romance. "It would ruin your reputation to be seen with a girl like me."

Marius turned to face her, his eyes dark with intensity. "But I've told you. I don't care about my reputation."

It was so like Marius, Eponine thought, to always put others first.

"Trust me," she said, her voice filled with the melancholy and deep conviction of one who had lived for a hundred years. "You should definitely care about what others think of you. Besides, it's not—" The deeply convicted voice wavered. Eponine sighed and continued, "It's not right for someone like me to be with someone like you."

"I'm no richer than you are," Marius said softly.

"But you know how to fly," Eponine murmured. "That's the only thing that matters, you know."

At last, the apartment building towered above them.

Marius politely held open the door for Eponine, like he always did, and they both swept silently inside and crept up the stairs.

They reached the apartment door—the one a few doors away from Eponine's family (if one could even call it a family).

"Ready for your lesson?" Marius asked, glancing at the door.

"Always am." She flashed him a quick, nervous little grin and knocked on the wood.

"Who's there?" a voice behind the door called out.

She noticed that Marius' form was starting to grow fainter, like a ghost.

"It—It's me," Eponine said, her voice faltering. "Eponine."

"Oh, come in, then."

Eponine reached out to open the door, but Marius touched her arm. The touch was as soft as a breath of fog. "Good luck," he told her.

She gave him one last sad smile before he disappeared. Then she walked into the apartment where the real Marius sat.

He was hunched over his desk, staring at a textbook, when Eponine walked in.

Marius swiveled around as the door creaked open. "Eponine! What happened to you?"

He'd been concerned for her. "Oh, it was nothing. Just, um, got distracted on my way here." _By detention_ , she added silently, burning with shame.

Marius didn't seem convinced. "Oh. Well, um, that's okay. As long as you're here now, I guess. Have a seat." He gestured at the navy blue beanbag that Eponine occupied every tutoring session.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she sank into the dark blue fabric. At least she wouldn't have to tell him about her little act of theft. Even though it wasn't the worst thing she'd ever done. A pang of guilt stabbed through her chest.

 _You're nothing but a criminal—_

"So how's school been treating you?" Marius asked, sifting through his mini fridge.

 _Criminal…thief…robber…_

"Oh, it's been fine. Just, you know…a lot of homework, textbooks…"

"Same. Hey, do you want anything to drink?"

… _liar…murderer…_

"I've never murdered anyone," Eponine hissed.

"What?"

"Um, water would be lovely."

"Sure."

Eponine stared at her lap, brow furrowing. "Hey, do you remember that story we read once? 'To Catch a Falling Star'?"

Marius handed Eponine a plastic cup. "That's that creepy one about the birds, right?"

Eponine smiled. "I thought it was beautiful." She remembered it vividly.

It was a fairytale of sorts, set in modern times. It was about a girl named Nessa who was paralyzed from the waist down and couldn't walk. But Nessa didn't care much for walking. Instead, she wished more than anything in the world that she could fly. She had been in an airplane before, but it just wasn't the same. Nessa wanted _wings_. With wings, she could fly wherever and whenever she liked. On land, everyone treated her as though she were some frail, helpless creature that would fall apart at any second. In the sky, she could finally be free from it all—the pitying glances, the patronizing murmurs.

Everyday, Nessa would roll outside in her wheelchair to gaze at the sparrows swooping and soaring across the great expanse of the sky. Her heart thrummed with a mixture of love, fascination, and pure envy. She longed to be like them. She longed to _be_ them.

"Eh. Beautiful, creepy. Same thing." Marius sipped from his cup. "Anyway. What were you saying about it?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just seeing if you remembered. I've been thinking about it quite often, recently." She cleared her throat a little. "By the way. I talked with one of your friends today. Enjolras, I think it was?"

Marius started, nearly choking on his drink. "Enjolras? As in— _Enjolras_? You?"

"What's so shocking about that?"

"Sorry, it's not bad or anything. It's just—he doesn't really…he doesn't really _talk_ to girls. What were you two talking about?"

"Um…nothing really. It was during—uh, English class. He was just trying to get to know me. I don't think it went very well, though. He probably thought I was strange." She smiled humorlessly to herself as she remembered their very brief exchange. Enjolras had stared at her first note—" _I don't know how to fly_ "—for a good thirty seconds before he finally decided to grace her with a reply.

" _Of course. And how exactly did your inability to fly earn you detention?_ " Enjolras' note had read.

Enjolras was, from what Eponine could tell, very intelligent. He was skilled at analyzing the pieces of literature they read in English class and had rather profound insights on what he read.

And yet. When Eponine looked at him, she saw someone she could never even dream of being. Rich, bold, virtuous, passionate. Incapable of being grasped or grounded.

Not a sparrow, but an eagle.

He wouldn't understand what a girl like Eponine went through, not truly. He couldn't.

And so she'd decided to refrain from explaining her metaphor to him. Instead, she'd carefully folded up his note, tucked it away in her bag, and continued writing her essay. Thankfully, he left her alone after that, but he'd made a point of blatantly avoiding her as they left the room. Eponine couldn't deny that it hurt, if only slightly.

Marius gave her a sympathetic smile. "Well, don't take it too personally. It takes a while for Enjolras to warm up to people. I'm sure he'll like you once he _really_ gets to know you." He didn't sound too convinced himself, but it was nice of him to try to comfort Eponine anyway. "Word of advice, though: don't tell him you like Napoleon."

"I'll keep that in mind." Eponine didn't care much for history, but she knew well enough about Marius' admiration for the French emperor. She also knew that Napoleon was a controversial figure—viewed by many as a villain. And Marius—kind, gentle Marius—actually held him in high regard.

Perhaps it seemed strange, but knowing this gave Eponine the hope that someone like Marius could love someone like her, just as he did in her fantasies. A wretched, tainted criminal of no virtue, yet he loved her, and saw the light that lay deep within her. He would slowly coax it out of its murky hiding place until she was free at last.

He may not love her now, she knew. She was too poor, too plain, too odd. But he knew how to fly, Eponine thought. And someday, she might know, too.


End file.
